


Weaving

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa only wants to help him, to take care of him.  But Jaime's not used to being nurtured, and he isn't adjusting very well.  Future-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weaving

 

 

“What is this?”  
  
His eyes narrow, and the words come out in a snarl rather more vicious than he intended.  Sansa balks a bit at the harshness, but her face remains impassive as ever.    
  
She glances up, shrugs, and turns back to her weaving loom.  “I had it made for you.  Your clothes are a fright.”    
  
Jaime laughs, a raspy, grating sound.  “I’m sorry to offend, _my lady_ .  But as I expected to be on a ship headed East by now, I haven’t given much thought to the state of my wardrobe.”  He takes a step into her sewing chamber, shoulders tight, unreasonable anger rolling off of him in waves.  “I’ve also little coin to speak of these days- simple clothing will do well enough for a pauper like myself.”  
  
When she says nothing, he steps even closer and extends his left hand, waving the garment in question before her face.  “Is this sable?  And the leather; it’s top-quality.”  He runs a finger over the clasps and winces.  “Gold, Sansa?  Real gold?”    
  
“What of it?” she asks quietly, fingers still calmly working over the loom.    
  
“How much did you pay for this?”  
  
“That’s an impertinent question,” she replies.  “It’s terrible manners to ask the cost of a gift.”    
  
“Then might I ask what I’ve done to warrant a gift?”  
  
Her hands still at last, and she sighs.  “You’re to be my Lord Commander, ser.  You’ll stand at my side as one of my most trusted councillors.  I can’t have you looking like a lowborn sellsword.”  
  
His laughter echoes louder this time, and Sansa briefly closes her eyes, a frown of distaste pulling at her mouth.   _Lord Commander_ \- he’d surely been drunk when he agreed to that.  Given the choice, he’d be far away by now- _but she asked, and I stayed..._  
  
The more he thinks of his new position here in Winterfell, the more ridiculous it seems- he’s to be “Lord Commander” of an army of men who piss on his disgraced name, who will never accept orders from him...and, in fact, Sansa has said very little of his military duties.  What she wants is a figure to stand beside her, to support her blindly in exchange for a fancy title and creature comforts...  
  
And in a sudden fit of pique, Jaime all but shouts, “Then I’m here for decoration, am I, Lady Sansa?  To stand at attention, looking the part of the valiant knight in these costly clothes that my patroness paid for?”  
  
“Oh, you think yourself so decorative as all that?” she snaps back, her face blanching white and her fingers taut with nerves.  
  
“Shall we see, my lady?  Shall we see if I look pretty enough to please you?”    
  
His left hand tears at his threadbare clothing, pulling the tunic up over his head and fumbling with the ornate clasps of the beautiful new overcoat.  Sansa just watches, blue eyes wide and so painfully full...  
  
“Jaime.  Why are you so angry?” she asks, and the soft sweetness of her voice only incenses him further.    
  
He hardly knows where to begin- shall he rage about his disinheritance, or perhaps about the obliteration of his entire family line (with the notable exception of Tyrion, who still refuses to speak to him), or maybe about the incredible contempt he faces each day from the Northmen, Sansa’s own kinfolk chief among them?    
  
The cold of the chamber assails his bare skin, and he feels his teeth beginning to chatter as he hisses, “You don’t need me here.  No one does, and yet you won’t let me leave-”  
  
“I won’t let you?”  He nearly jumps in astonishment;  Sansa so rarely raises her voice, but she’s shouting in earnest now.  “I asked you to stay.  I want you to stay.  You helped me and took care of me and all I wanted to do was help you...and take care of you...”  The color returns to her face, vibrant and furious.  “But go, if that’s what you want.  Go!  There’s no one stopping you.  Just run away, I dare say it would be easier....”  Her barks taper off into huffing, seething murmurs. “Go, if you want to...”  
  
The late-afternoon sunlight beams through the window and illuminates her face.  The red splotches stand out violently against the white, her lips tremble, and her eyes...she turns her face down, but it’s a moment too late; Jaime notices the mist of tears gathering in the crystalline blue.  
  
At once, the rage seeps out of him, leaving him tired and deflated.  A large part of him wishes to leave her in solitude, but he approaches her instead, steps quiet and hesitant.  
  
“Sansa.”  
  
“I’m busy right now, Jaime,” she whispers, twitching fingers returning to the loom.    
  
Jaime kneels at her side and places his hand on her knee.  She halts her weaving, but waits several moments before turning her head to look at him.  
  
He must be quite a sight: red-faced, half-naked, shivering with cold.  And yet she looks at him with her heart in her eyes, brushing her cool fingertips over his face, shoulders and chest.    
  
“I’ve been beastly to you.”   The acknowledgement is as much as he can give- even after everything, Jaime Lannister has little talent for apology.  
  
“Yes,” she replies.  Her hand moves to cup his cheek, and he presses his face into her palm, eyes fluttering shut.  
  
“Would it be so bad to let me take care of you, Jaime?” Her thumb brushes his lips, and he gently kisses the tip before opening his eyes and looking up at her.  
  
“I have little experience with being cared for, my lady.  And I may be too old to learn.”  
  
She lowers her face until her brow rests against the crown of his head, soft hands still stroking his chilled flesh.    
  
“But it won’t only go one way.  I want you to take care of me, too. Will you do that?”  
  
An urgent heat floods his body, and he reaches for her, his mouth hot and hungry on hers.  She coils her arms around his neck and sighs, her little tongue swiping at his lips, the wool of her dress scratchy against his bare chest.  She slides from her stool and guides him back until his skin makes contact with the icy stone floor.  And then it’s Sansa’s body, soft and willing and warm, her thick red hair surrounding him, her tiny hands caressing and teasing.  
  
“What are you weaving?” he whispers to her as she kisses just below his chin, the same spot again and again.    
  
“It..”  She lifts her head to look him in the eye, and she blushes again. “It’s a blanket for you to put under the furs of your bed.  It will help keep the warmth in...I know you aren’t used to cold like this, and I thought-”  
  
His lips on hers interrupt her words, and she smiles into his mouth.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
